


an affair to recreate

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, Post-Kingsman: The Secret Service, rich people problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: “Not so fast,” Merlin says. “Dr. Abernathy is a psychologist of an intimate nature, and he’s booked up to the gills, except for in one area.”His smile does not, and never has, bode well for Harry. He envisions Siberia in the dead of winter, two matchsticks, and a mug full of the worst coffee he’s ever tasted. “What?” he asks slowly, dreading.Merlin’s smile is like a shark’s. “Couples’ sex therapy.”
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 206





	an affair to recreate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mang_o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mang_o/gifts).



> Thank you to Mango_o for nudging me with this idea and letting me run with it! This was fun to write, so I hope y'all have as much fun reading it <3

“Galahad,” Merlin dryly notes when he strolls into the dining room, “you’re late.”

“Apologies,” Harry says, taking the seat to the right of Percival—no, Arthur. Eggsy had been the one to take Percival’s title, graciously allowing Harry to keep the mantle of Galahad.

“I thought you were late to spite Chester,” Alastair says. “I can see now this tardiness of yours is merely a vice.”

“But somehow,” Merlin notes, amused, “you never seem to be late to your weekly dinners with Eggsy.”

Harry ignores this. “Am I here for a mission or for a gossip session?”

“He does have a point, Merlin,” Alastair says, blessedly taking mercy on him.

“Glasses on, then, gentlemen,” Merlin says, but Harry can see plain as day that his friend won’t forget this so easily. He then projects an image of an unsmiling man, looking at the camera as if it owed him money, above the fireplace. “Galahad, this is Dr. Jim Abernathy, a psychologist currently practicing in London. He’s renowned in certain circles, but it appears that he has not been keeping his doctor-patient confidentiality.” Another image flashes to someone who Harry recognizes as part of the House of Lords. “We’ve been alerted that he’s passing on secrets, using whatever will benefit a circle of close friends. A blackmail ring, if you will.” 

Harry leafs through the notes Merlin has given him. The information spilled goes from a high court judge accepting bribes that affect her rulings to some film star’s affair with his co-star. There are prostitution rings, child labor, drug charges, adultery, even incest—in other words, pay dirt.

“Some of these appear justified,” Merlin says. “But he isn’t doing this for purely altruistic reasons; it’s to further his career, help his friends, and soon—to the highest bidder.”

“Bors recently came to us after his mission,” Alastair says, then slides the brief of said mission over towards Harry. Harry remembers this, the terrorist group who orchestrated several bombings around Paris after V-Day, taking advantage of the chaos. They had nearly taken out the president, along with several of his associates. “He managed to find the name of one of his target’s informants.”

“And he found Dr. Abernathy,” Harry concludes.

“Who’s been moving onto others who can fill his pockets,” Merlin continues. “A mercenary of some sorts. As Dr. Abernathy sees many patients who are wealthy, influential, and powerful, there are hosts of information to be exploited to the highest bidder.” 

“I suspect it’s not simply a matter of him being so good that his patients tell him everything,” Alastair says. “A sweep of Bors’ target’s properties notes listening devices, and we have his case locked in to turn over to the proper authorities. But we need direct evidence, and that requires a patient.”

Harry nods, already suspecting what will be required of him.

“You will use one of your aliases and make an appointment,” Merlin explains, confirming his thoughts.

“And I will prove to have some blackmail-worthy information.”

“I imagine you’ll be able to come up with something appropriate,” Merlin says. “You will be using Mr. DeVere, one of our best aliases—well-connected, wealthy, met with Richard Valentine.”

Harry tries not to grimace at the reminder, although Merlin means well; his alias was, after all, enough to draw Valentine’s attention—and more. He still remembers Gazelle slowly uncrossing her bladed legs, Valentine strolling into the shop without a care in the world, himself neatly being maneuvered into Valentine’s testing ground. How careless he’d been—with no thanks to Chester.

 _I’m glad I killed him,_ Eggsy said to him during one of their dinners. _I know I’m not supposed to say that shit, but after what he did…_

His eyes had looked fierce—protective, even—and Harry wanted to reach across the table and take his hand and tell him that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere, all the sweet lies people were supposed to say. 

“Of course,” Harry says, forcing himself out of his thoughts. “When shall the appointment be?”

“Not so fast,” Merlin says. “Dr. Abernathy is a psychologist of an _intimate_ nature, and he’s booked up to the gills, except for in one area.” 

His smile does not, and never has, bode well for Harry. He envisions Siberia in the dead of winter, two matchsticks, and a mug full of the worst coffee he’s ever tasted. “What?” he asks slowly, dreading. 

Merlin’s smile is like a shark’s. “Couples’ sex therapy.”

* * *

That night, Harry wakes up to the screams and choked gasps, the explosions and cracks of gunfire, and the hot blood running down his face, breathing heavily as he looks around the room. Nothing but the dresser, the nightstand, and the window, which allows a sliver of moonlight through the heavy curtains.

Harry slowly gets up, running his finger along the lock to reassure himself, then sighs heavily. He misses Mr. Pickle, who’d curl up beside him during these nights, offering reassurance. Mr. Pickle had been the only one to comfort him with no questions, no suspicions of what he’d been up to during his months-long absences or late nights.

And that’s another reason he cannot have a lover stay the night. Too many questions, even if they know about Kingsman, or worse, an acceptance of violence defiling their bed, their home. The secrecy he cannot stand, nor the lack of distraction. He wouldn’t wish to be anyone else, but just once, when he’s alone, he wants a semblance of peace. 

Not for the first time, Harry wishes all of this could go away, if he’d fall asleep one more time and he’d wake up with all of the recollections but none of the visceral. Instead, closing his eyes, he forces himself to recite the headlines across his office wall in chronological order, hoping to get a few hours of dreamless sleep.

* * *

“You okay, Harry?”

“I’m all right, Eggsy,” he says, offering him the sugar bowl, trying not to wince when Eggsy dumps in three heaping spoonfuls into his tea. The café they like to frequent is close to the tailor shop, so they have enough time to eat and head over. “Just tired. What about you? How was Mozambique?”

“Hot,” Eggsy replies, then proceeds to slather his toast with strawberry jam. “Wish I could have smuggled the perri perri I had for almost two weeks straight, though; that shit was delicious. But I bet that lady who owns the stall never wants to see me again.”

Harry smiles at Eggsy’s mock-mournful expression. “Why not?”

“Knocked it over in a chase,” Eggsy says, shaking his head. “Got our guy, but was it worth it in the end?”

It’s Harry’s turn to shake his head, but he can’t deny that he’s amused. “I surely hope so. At the very least, you get some rest after your trip. Do you have a restaurant in mind for this weekend?” 

Eggsy shrugs, picking up his fork and knife and sawing at his half-eaten omelet. “Wouldn’t say no to that kabob place. But aren’t you busy? Merlin mentioned you had something to prep for.”

Still rather sleep-dazed, Harry reaches for another piece of toast, mindful of the waitress stooping over them to refill their water glasses. He quietly thanks her, and Eggsy gives her a friendly nod before she, with a restrained smile, goes to an older gentleman snapping his fingers at her. 

“Have you lost your dog?” they hear her ask faux-politely, and Eggsy smirks, not bothering to hide it behind a cup of tea.

“I’m leaving her a nice tip,” Eggsy says, before adding, “Merlin keeps pairing me up with Kay, and we work well together, but he can be a bit of a stick in the mud sometimes.” 

“Kay has been with Kingsman for longer than I have, and you ought to learn from his years of tenure.” Harry sips at his tea, then adds, “But he _is_ rather dull.” He’s pleased to hear Eggsy laugh, and taking a bite out of his own omelet, says, “Perhaps we will have one soon. I am your mentor, after all, and traditionally would have some say.” 

He’d be happy to relay it to Alastair. Merlin is too nosy for his own good; Harry has his reasons for not pursuing Eggsy, and he’d rather have Eggsy’s friendship than no relationship whatsoever

“Cheers, then,” Eggsy says, then raises his mug of tea. “To bribing our bosses?”

“May they live forever,” Harry intones, and they clink cups. 

* * *

Harry arrives a little bit early, dressed to impress—a suit and oxfords that cost as much as the average car, sleek-fitting glasses that have the same controls as his Kingsman ones, and gold cufflinks that will plant bugs all around the room. He takes his umbrella—because you can never be too sure—and allows a few minutes to look around, acting as if he’s looking for someone following him before slipping into the building.

Taking the elevator, Harry waits, looking around at the glass panes. Merlin is already at work, scanning for cameras and bugs. Harry doesn’t dare ask out loud in case there are eyes and ears at ready, so he silently steps out when the doors open with a chime, expression carefully blank as he approaches the office.

Dr. Abernathy is waiting for him in what looks to be a receiving area, complete with a water cooler, several tins of tea, and houseplants. He looks a little older than Harry himself, greying hair streaking his temples and liver-spotted hands. His suit is well-tailored, though not from Kingsman, and his watch alone could buy a flat in London.

“Mr. DeVere, welcome,” Dr. Abernathy says, smiling as if Harry’s a dear friend of his. “I’m glad you were able to find the place.”

“Yes, I was, and it seems…adequate for my privacy.” Harry allows a thread of aloofness into his voice. He looks around, making sure Merlin can continue his scanning and observing the various paintings on the walls, neatly framed in elaborate gilt frames. “I’ve heard of your reputation.”

“Good things, I hope,” Dr. Abernathy says jovially. “No worry, Mr. DeVere, your privacy is of the utmost importance. You need a safe, confidential space and someone to honestly confide in. Only then will your…problems be solved.”

Harry nods briefly. He adjusts his glasses, noting Merlin’s typed message: _LISTENING DEVICES DETECTED. CAMERAS IN THE FRAMES._ “I should hope so. Shall we step into your office? I’m paying an awful lot for my time here.”

“But of course.” Dr. Abernathy opens the door to his office, allowing Harry to pass through first. He sits on a leather couch facing a single chair, legs elaborately carved with vines and flowers. Beside the couch is a small clock, and there are more paintings on the walls with the same gilt frames. Shelves of books take up some of the room. There are no windows.

“Soundproof,” Dr. Abernathy explains. “Even if someone is in the waiting room, they won’t be able to hear a thing, even with their ear pressed to the door. Tea? Refreshments?”

Harry waves his hand. “No.” He looks around again, the picture of a man who wishes to escape, but knows that staying here is for his own good. 

He sits, resting his umbrella delicately against the couch’s armchair. 

What follows is a chat of some sorts—introducing himself, telling the psychologist what exactly it is he does but purposefully dodging the probing questions about his personal life. Mr. DeVere, Harry had decided with Merlin, has several grand properties, yet he is far from satisfied. There’s charity auctions, galas, lounging about, inspecting his properties, drinking—“now, _that’s_ accurate,” Merlin had proclaimed—and the sort of things wealthy people complain about that much of the world roll their eyes over.

Harry can tell the inane details are tallying in the doctor’s head, calculating Mr. DeVere’s assets, but searching for something to exploit. So far, he has found very little.

“It appears to an outsider your life is full of inconsequential problems, but is that accurate, Mr. DeVere?” Dr. Abernathy asks. He leans forward, a picture of concern.

Harry affects a strong note of indignation. “Inconsequential? You have no idea what it’s like. Everything is—” He allows himself a melodramatic scoff, half-standing, ready to make an exit. “Perhaps this is a waste of my time.”

“I don’t believe it is.” Dr. Abernathy is irritatingly calm. He hasn’t even risen from his chair. “That was a poor choice of words. You came for a reason—or several. Remember, this is a safe place.”

 _Far from it_ , Harry thinks. He sits back down slowly, crossing his legs.

Dr. Abernathy waits, not pressing, and Harry prepares himself for what he is about to say. V-Day would be the most viable, but he loathed the idea of spilling something so intimate to a stranger. He could talk about finances or the like, but those were easy enough to pull up and research. No, it had to be something no one could find on Mr. DeVere—worthy of scrutiny and shame.

“You came to couples’ therapy, Mr. DeVere, but there’s no one beside you,” Dr. Abernathy says calmly. “You have no spouse, it seems, but you signed up for this session for a reason. Intimacy issues, with someone you shouldn’t be seeing, someone you don’t dare bring into this office or in public. Am I onto something?” 

_He’s good,_ Merlin says dryly. 

“My—” Harry pauses, allowing frustration and reluctance to permeate the room. He tries to stand up once again, then sits back down. “No. No.” 

Vehemently, Harry shakes his head, counting to thirty in his head, making sure the doctor is leaning forward, hooked like a fish on the line before he storms out, complete with the door slamming behind him. 

Once he’s outside, Harry steps out onto the sidewalk with a ruffled air, pretending to check his watch. It is a nice day, and close enough to his favorite cafe to get a spot of tea...

Deep in his thoughts, he doesn’t see the person until it’s too late, as their bodies collide, spilling a paper cup of coffee into the street--luckily, Harry vainly thinks, not on his suit. 

“H—” 

“I recall that I told you to address me as Mr. DeVere,” Harry says severely. 

Luckily, Eggsy is a quick study. “I’m sorry, Mr. DeVere,” he replies, bowing his head a little, the picture of deference. Harry dislikes seeing this: the shoulders bowing forward, spine curving, and eyes to the floor, as if he’d rather look anywhere else but Harry. 

“Even though it is your day off, I would like you to address me with proper respect,” Harry says. He wants to gentle his voice, touch Eggsy’s arm, give him some sign that Harry will never do this to him, not in real life, but he doesn’t dare. “Do remember that I sign your paychecks.” 

Eggsy looks at him with the right amount of disguised loathing and submission. “Of course. Sir.” 

With a single nod, Harry allows it to go, then leans forward, whispering in Eggsy’s ear: “We’re being watched.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, and clears his throat. “Uh. Mr. DeVere, I’m sorry. I thought you were supposed to be at the office. Not that it’s any of my business. Sir.” 

_When we get back to HQ, we’ll have to sign him up for acting classes,_ Harry thinks. “You’re right that it’s none of your business.” He knows he has to stay on this part of the sidewalk a little longer; otherwise, he’d walk away right then and there. 

Instead, he draws himself up to full height and looks disdainfully at the cup rolling into the gutter, the brown splashes on Eggsy’s white buttoned-up shirt. “You better clean yourself up before you meet with the partners. I left you in charge specifically because I believed you were competent. Don’t make me regret it.” 

“You won’t,” Eggsy says, and there’s something so earnest, so honest in his voice that Harry almost winces. They hadn’t talked about the dog test, like so many things, swiping it under the rug and hoping it wouldn’t catch up with them. Perhaps they’d need to have a talk later… 

“Mr. DeVere!” the doctor rushes after him, clutching Harry’s umbrella; in normal circumstances, Harry would hide a triumphant smirk, but now, realizes the pickle he’s gotten himself and Eggsy into. “You forgot this.” 

The umbrella’s handle presses into his hand, and Harry nods gratefully, letting his eyes roam over it. 

“I’m happy I caught you,” Dr. Abernathy says, the picture of humbleness, glancing at Eggsy with a barely disguised _ahaha_ quirk of his mouth. “I’m sorry; I forgot to give you my card.” 

Harry accepts it, making a show of giving it a once-over, and slips it into his jacket pocket quickly. “Very well,” he says, frowning at the doctor until he walks away and disappears back into the office. 

“Very good, Galahad,” Merlin murmurs in his ear. “Tracking AND listening device on the umbrella, and perhaps the card, too. He’s taking no chances.” 

That’s one hypothesis cleared. Harry only nods, not daring to speak until he justifiably put down the bugged devices in the ‘privacy’ of his home, or one of the safehouses built for this purpose. On paper, it’s one of DeVere’s many properties, with no ties to Kingsman, and he inwardly sighs; he’ll miss staying at his own house. But it can’t be helped. 

He glances at Eggsy rather stiffly, then spins on his heel and trots off, sending him a message through his glasses: _It looks like you may involved in my mission now. Keep up._

Eggsy, very aptly, responds: _Fuck._

* * *

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Harry says, once there’s decent privacy. It’s a sunny afternoon, so he’s stepped outside without his umbrella, the business card tucked away in the safehouse’s desk. Still, he makes a show of speaking into his phone, as typical when agents are out in public and don’t wish to be seen muttering into thin air. “I would never treat you like that if—”

“No, no, I get it,” Eggsy says. “Façade and all.” A pause, then a teasing: “You were an arsehole, though.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Dinner sounds good. Italian?”

“You’re enjoying this.” 

“I assure you I’m not,” Eggsy says, in what Harry recognizes as his best posh accent. “Sorry about that. I guess we got our wires crossed. I hope I didn’t fuck up anything.” 

“No,” Harry says, though he’s still unsure what Dr. Abernathy’s conclusion would be. Hopefully, it seems like nothing except a sniping between a boss and his underling, and Eggsy can easily exit the mission. 

Of course, his luck isn’t that good.

* * *

“Tell me, Mr. DeVere, you and that young man I saw you with the other day… is there something between you two?” 

The jig is up, but as customary, Mr. DeVere sputters. He blathers. He makes excuses. He shakes his head, tries to leave, then remembers he’s paying for the time. He downplays, then seemingly goes on a stream of consciousness ramble, then shuts down. It’s remarkably similar to being tortured, Harry thinks, counting out the exact time where his alias can “break,” staying strong with gritted teeth until his secrets are seemingly beaten out of him, or isolation makes him want to do anything to shatter the monotony, the sword hanging over his head. 

And much to his disgruntlement, this particular question offers the perfect excuse for his cover: a real, breathing symbol of shame, without doing the work of sketching a whole character from scratch, trying to breathe life into them to make them believable. 

“There may be such a relationship,” he finally admits, purposefully looking at his shoes. Mr. DeVere, this time, is someone who rarely speaks, but once someone gets past his shell, forcibly or otherwise, he talks: a reservoir tapped, albeit haltingly. “With...with… my coworker. I hired him after the last one left, and he's been in my service for some time.”

“How long, exactly?”

“Two years.”

“And when did you begin this affair?”

“A few months, maybe. Nearly a year after he was hired.”

And for the next couple of sessions, he talks. Part of playing a role is sticking with what's familiar, and being attracted to Eggsy is very familiar indeed, though Mr. DeVere hides behind a veneer of liking the exotic experience of dabbling with an underling, someone he hasn’t known since grade school or from any of the mind numbing public events, someone fresh and young and exciting--something, however, shallow and carnal than his true feelings.

And of course, a healthy dose of internalized homophobia for good measure: He, after all, plans to run for office, and this troubles him. If this ever got out, this would ruin his reputation, his wealth.

“My father is still alive, you see,” Harry continues. Chester had an alias connected to DeVere, but just because agents passed on doesn’t mean their alises didn’t. “I stand to inherit quite a lot as his only heir, but if this comes out…”

“I do believe group therapy would be most helpful.”

“With who?” Harry asks, pretending to be obtuse.

Dr. Abernathy replies, with a reassuring smile, “Your lover.” 

“I don’t think so,” Harry says stiffly. Eggsy is certainly a capable agent in his own right, but he doesn’t need to be dragged into this. And he knows how Kingsman builds cover stories, a foundation of truth beneath, and Eggsy’s bright. He’ll dissect it eventually, and Harry can’t bear for it to be known, not like this. Or ever. 

The doctor frowns; DeVere has spent a lot of money and time, but precious little information despite careful prying, and Harry’s detected a hint of impatience. He craves secrets, and a little nudge will push him to another level of dirty work. 

So when Dr. Abernathy pulls out his phone to make another appointment, Harry hems and haws and allows it to slip that he has a prior engagement on a particular evening and it’s best to reschedule. He allows DeVere’s phone to show a simple calendar note of “dinner,” before covering the screen rather brusquely, and knows the bait is bitten.

* * *

Tonight, their dinner is served in the privacy of Harry's home. (Mr. DeVere is supposedly at yet another function and has not taken his umbrella, but he suspects his safe house may be bugged.) To make up for the dismal subject matter, Harry's prepared Eggsy's recent craving, pasta tossed with white wine sauce and all sorts of seafood, along with a generous platter of crusty bread and a mixture of olive oil and vinegar. There's also a dessert in the refrigerator, enough for there to be leftovers. 

And drinks. Lots of them. 

They sit across the table like strangers, chewing mechanically. Eggsy had taken his role rather well, though he’s staring more at the pasta and less at Harry, something that makes Harry’s stomach guiltily squirm. 

“Eggsy,” Harry finally says, feeling the weight of duty press on his shoulders, "how comfortable are you undertaking this mission?" 

Eggsy gives him a look. “Are _you_ not comfortable?”

Harry chooses his next words: “What we have to do is not new to me. But this is your first mission of a...sexual nature.”

Eggsy lets out of noise of indignation. “Harry!”

“We have to talk about this,” Harry says, even though he wants to do the exact opposite. “I don't want to cause you any discomfort.” 

“It's nothing I haven't seen before,” Eggsy grouses, though red's creeping up from his neck to his ears. “You're acting like I haven't gotten my first kiss yet.”

Harry's now stuck. Is it worse to imply that Eggsy has slept around a lot or act like Eggsy's never so much as looked at another person sexually? And—he knows from Merlin—would it be insulting if Eggsy really wasn't interested? 

“I don't wish to imply you're incapable,” Harry ends up saying. 

“Is it because it's another bloke thing?” Eggsy stiffens, reminding Harry of their first terse conversation at the Black Prince. 

Harry shuts it down immediately: “It would be rather hypocritical of me, seeing as I've had 'another bloke thing' for my whole life.” 

Eggsy brightens, then something passes over his face. Doubt, Harry thinks. “All right,” he says too casually. “That's good, then. No problems for us on that end.”

“Absolutely none?” Harry asks. 

Eggsy's chest puffs out. “None that anyone's told me.”

Anyone—Harry's head parades with images of Eggsy and faceless strangers. 

“In all intents and purposes, we are strangers to seeing each other this way,” Harry reminds him gently. 

“Right. So, we...practice? Rehearse?”

"No," Harry says quickly, taking a deep sip of his wine. He senses he might drain the entire bottle by the end of the evening. “Well, we get used to physical content, of course. But it’s more of… playing to the audience.” 

“Make it look real,” Eggsy says quietly, then drains his glass. “All right. That I can do.”

* * *

The evening starts off as planned: a clandestine car under the cover of darkness to a pretentious French restaurant that requires a well-placed bribe and another handful of bills to ensure a private booth. Eggsy wears a button-up shirt, decorated with cheeky pink stripes, and freshly ironed trousers, while Harry opts for a traditional dark suit and a masterfully-cocked tophat as a “poor” attempt to hide his face. They touch hands when no one’s looking their way and make start-and-stop conversations over wine. 

It’s clear to an outsider—especially the bug Harry’s still neglected to remove from his umbrella and the tail seated just a few feet away—that this night is one of many practiced affairs, and as the evening wears on, their smiles and coy glances become a bit more careless, so much so that Harry is in constant danger of forgetting himself, forgetting that the night will vanish into the air and be forgotten, with only recollection as a souvenir. Still, he tries to enjoy it as much as possible, from the way Eggsy’s cheeks are flushed in the candlelight and how their knees touch underneath the tablecloth. 

They both pretend to linger, slipping on coats and idly debating whether to get more drinks, before meandering side-by-side to a hotel tucked a few blocks away, something that was arranged beforehand. Eggsy stands outside, pretending to scroll through his phone, as Harry checks them in, then slips outside. 

_No tail,_ Eggsy reports over his glasses, and Harry raises his eyebrows as he takes Eggsy’s arm, almost possessively, and leads him to the room. Eggsy gives a minute shrug, glancing around the hallway as if in amazement of the chandeliers and sleek doors, before they get to their room and Harry practically shoves them in. 

Almost immediately, Merlin pings, _It appears your hotel suite has been bugged._

Harry nods, drawing an arm over Eggsy's shoulder and leaning in so it looks like he's whispering sweet nothings in his lover's ear. “Just what we wanted. What do you think?” 

_Audio only_ , Merlin reports. 

_Only audio?_ Harry asks. 

_Guess he doesn't want to actually see a show,_ Eggsy says. He then laughs softly in Harry's ear. 

Relief washes over Harry. They don't have to participate in something so loathsome, so intimate to be reviewed under the scrutinizing eye of a stranger. 

He's imagined this too many times to be considered appropriate: Eggsy stretched out on his bed, his own hands exploring the smooth planes of Eggsy's chest and stomach, Eggsy's lips parted and eyes closed in pleasure. He would make love to Eggsy in the privacy of his room, away from prying eyes and the chaos of the world. 

No, he wants the moment to belong to them, not to anyone else. Harry feels cheated and disgusted that it will come at a time to tantalize a reprehensible man, used as nothing more than bait, reduced to an impersonal work strategy. 

Perhaps this is the universe's way of mocking him, showing him that he had a chance to make this real. Now, all he gets is a facsimile, a confirmation that he can have nothing more than Kingsman in his life. 

"Well," Harry says, both as Mr. DeVere and Galahad, "what shall we do?"

“What do you think?” Eggsy asks, unbuckling his belt. 

Harry finds himself standing with his jaw hitting his collar as Eggsy whips the belt off and loudly shakes buckle, making the metal clink noticeably loud in the small room. His zipper then comes down, shirt falling over it, as his hands slide his trousers down so they fall to the carpeted floor, then kick off his shoes with unnecessary exuberance.

Forcing his eyes up, Harry watches as Eggsy backs up and jumps back on the end of the bed, making the springs groan. He then smirks and begins bouncing lightly on the mattress. "Oh. _Ohhhhh_ , Henry." 

Harry gets it, following suit until he’s only in his shirt and pants, awkwardly climbing onto the bed beside Eggsy. He presses hard on the mattress with the base of his palm, allowing a short squeak. 

“God, I want you,” he says. It's true. 

“Then go ahead,” Eggsy replies, voice breathy, and begins to rock against the bed on his knees, sighing. 

Feeling foolish, Harry rolls up his sleeve, extends his arm, and plants long, sucking kisses along the bare skin. Eggsy grins at him, and mimics him, even adding a few moans that Harry desperately tries to ignore. He sounds like a pornographic actor—an amateur at that. 

Harry solves it by gently placing a hand over Eggsy's mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. 

Eggsy laughs behind his hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. He then reaches forward with both hands, Harry stilling as they come closer towards his face, as Eggsy’s fingers lift the glasses right off the bridge of his nose. They stare at each other, caught in the headlights, as Eggsy’s breath passes over his lips, eyes half-closing. All it would take is a slight crook of the neck forward…

Eggsy blinks at him, as Harry takes the glasses from him and places them gently on the nightstand, trying to hide the slight tremor of his hands. From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Eggsy’s face change, lips downturned—then slaps the wall so hard that he shakes his palm a few times, cursing. 

“H—Henry, don't stop!” Eggsy sighs, between harsh gasps like he's running a marathon. “Oh, Henry, Henry, Henry!” He shifts and begins bounces on the mattress, increasing his speed in increments until the headboard is slightly thumping against the wall. He signals to Harry. 

On his knees, he bounces in tandem with Eggsy, feeling more and more foolish. This method is clever, if amusing for Eggsy, who keeps making such faces that Harry has to bite his knuckles to keep from laughing, mostly in secondhand embarrassment. He has to turn away as Eggsy rises and begins jumping enthusiastically on the mattress in his bare feet. 

“So close,” Eggsy gasps. “So...oh, oh!” 

For good measure, Eggsy slaps the wall above Harry's head, then falls back on the bed, springs groaning under his weight, with an exuberant moan that Harry’s too embarrassed to follow. 

After a few minutes, Eggsy begins to giggle, muffling his laughter in the pillow, while Harry collapses beside him.

“Again?” Eggsy says, wiggling his eyebrows absurdly. “ _Oooh_ , Henry!”

Harry glares at him. “I think a shower is in order,” he says, back to the cool Mr. DeVere.

Eggsy winks. “May I join you?”

“It will be efficient.”

Harry turns on the tap, and they step into the shower, keeping what they have left of their clothes on, even as the water streams down and flattens the neat part of Eggsy’s hair. 

“Think we got enough for him?” Eggsy mutters. 

“I think so,” Harry says. 

Steam’s filling the room, fogging the mirror. “Hey, he ain't going to get you by saying you've got low stamina,” Eggsy jokes. 

“Much obliged,” Harry says wryly. “But there are now pills for that sort of thing.”

Eggsy snickers. “Hey, Mr. DeVere is a sex god, and I think we showcased that pretty well. I just…” 

He trails off, and Harry asks, “What?” 

“Well, what’s the next step?” 

“We stay in here for the night,” Harry replies, “and check out very early. Same clothes.”

“No.” Eggsy’s closer now, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “After this. Another rendezvous? Think it was real enough? Should we do it again?” 

It’s almost a challenge, with Eggsy's shirt clinging distractedly to his skin, white and transparent. Hanks of hair are plastered across his forehead; Harry wants nothing more than to push them behind his ears. “Do you want to?” 

“What do you want?” 

Harry looks at him. “I want what you want.” 

“Do you?” 

As answer, Harry kisses him. Eggsy responds, clinging onto his shoulders, tilting his neck up, and everything before V-Day floods to the surface. He's loved Eggsy ever since he stepped into Kingsman's lift, and his last thought before Valentine's bullet was of him. 

Harry pulls away, taking the temperature of the situation, just to be sure. “DeVere is like a lot of men I've encountered throughout my life—keeping up appearances, hiding his vices in the shadows.” Harry swallows. “I don't want something like that. If we are going to be… what we are, I don't want to hide you.”

Eggsy looks up at him, pressing his palm tenderly to the right side of Harry’s face, grazing the scar that marked his survival. “Neither do I.”

* * *

Eventually, they have to step out, with Eggsy shucking off his wet clothes onto the tile and wrapping a towel around his waist. Harry does the same, but snatches a hotel robe right off the hook of the bathroom door, and winds it around his body, feeling as shy after his first kiss in secondary. 

They’ve only forgotten one thing: the bed. 

“Well,” Eggsy says cheerfully, “you may be an upper class twat, Mr. DeVere, but even you will allow a lowly subordinate a bed.”

“You may find me a generous man,” Harry says. He locks eyes with Eggsy. _Is it all right?_

“Well, I'm not sleeping on the floor,” Eggsy replies deftly, then winks. "How can I give you a proper wake-up call tomorrow?" 

“You may fuck me, but you still have to call me sir in the morning,” Harry says dryly, and Eggsy laughs, throwing a pillow at him, before capturing his head in another kiss. 


End file.
